


The End of All Things

by reids



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Drug Use, Gen, Spencer relapses, and dies, and overdoses, nobody's gonna read this but it had to be done, whoops!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:41:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25890757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reids/pseuds/reids
Summary: Spencer Reid has struggled with addiction for most of his life. Nobody can help him.
Comments: 10
Kudos: 84





	The End of All Things

**Author's Note:**

> big trigger warning for recreational drug use, alcohol use, and overdose!

Spencer smoked his first cigarette at twelve years old.

He stole it out of his mom’s purse, from the half-empty pack she kept for the rare occasion when she would leave the house. He sat by his window and coughed and choked for a while. Before he even lit it, he took about five minutes to make sure it looked cool between his fingers.

His mother had asked about why his hands smelled, and he just said he’d picked up her smushed butts from the backyard. She smiled and ruffled her hair. Such a caring young boy.

It was all just a game then.

Now, at twenty-three years old, it consumes him. He’s been known to step out of meetings and briefings for a smoke break, and every jet ride longer than an hour is hell—both for him, and for the rest of the team.

Penelope has tried to make him stop. She’ll bring him patches, gum, candy, anything that’s been proven to work, but he doesn’t want them. He doesn’t want to stop.

Derek’s tried to tell him how nasty of a habit it is, how one day his teeth will be rotted and his fingernails will be yellow, but he dismisses these claims and jokes that he won’t live long enough for that to happen anyway. Derek doesn’t think it’s funny.

Spencer knows why he smokes. He doesn’t want to confront it, but he _is_ aware that it’s his replacement for real happiness. It’s kind of hard to explain to his friends that he does it because nicotine stimulates dopamine production, and if he doesn’t smoke, he will never feel that.

Although a federal agent, when the head rushes and subtle buzz aren’t enough anymore, Spencer will resort to marijuana. He’s not very well-versed, but he owns a small bong and a spoon pipe. He only smokes joints when he’s on cases and can’t bring his entire setup, because his hands are shaky and everything he rolls is ugly.

He’ll sit on the toilet seat cover with the shower running and light up with Hotch on the other side of the door. It’s difficult to sleep any other way.

Spencer is not above showing up to Quantico stoned, but he is terrified of getting his ass handed to him by Hotch and being fired on the spot. He’s pretty sure nobody would suspect a thing, because why would Spencer Reid, resident genius and quirky pretty boy, ever smoke weed? He’s often tired, and that’s what it would be dismissed as, but he knows that smoking pot before work is a whole other level of pathetic. 

His consistent dry cough and inability to walk up stairs without wheezing are enough evidence of his activities.

Though he prefers the action of smoking, Spencer is no stranger to pills. With five degrees and two decades of education, he was bound to fall into this trap at some point. “Some point” happened to be the ripe age of fifteen.

Living with a nineteen year old of average intelligence in the south of California meant that he had access to just about anything he wanted. His roommate supplied him with copious amounts of prescription drugs, but the only one he would take regularly was Adderall. His savior.

He wouldn’t consider himself addicted anymore, but he does occasionally still use it to keep himself alert on tough cases.

When he’s kidnapped and becomes dependent on dilaudid, it works not as a wake-up call, but as encouragement for him.

It feels good; better than anything else he’s tried before. It’s scarier than the pills and blunts, he’s never been very fond of needles, but the rush is worth it.

He mostly uses it at home, because it’s not very easy to conceal intravenous drugs at work, but if he has his own room while on cases, he’ll bring a few bottles and some needles with him in his bag. He has to wear long sleeves to cover the scabs and track marks, and it isn’t uncommon for him to stain a dress shirt with blood from the injection sites.

Most days, he comes home from work and removes his belt and button-up, securing the leather around his arm and pushing the cold metal into his vein. Just to be able to forget.

He knows that his problem is obvious, so for the sake of his friends—and of his job—he goes to narcotics anonymous meetings. They work for the most part, except for the occasional drunken relapse. The Xanax, the Valium, the cocaine, it all comes after the Dilaudid. He’s a walking zombie for a few months, and he looks so unhealthy that Derek stopped joking about it.

He steps into the Quantico men’s room one day and quickly locks the door, fishing a small baggie out of his pocket and pulling it open. He scoops a tiny mountain of the powder onto his pinky, positions it under his nostril, and sniffs it. It burns when it goes up, but as he rubs his nose and continues to sniff harshly, the feeling fades. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath through his mouth, shoving the bag back into his pocket before he turns to the mirror. The man staring back is not who he recognizes as Spencer Reid.

Although his cheekbones were prominent before, they bulge out even more now, and the rest of his face looks impossibly aged. The circles around his eyes are much darker, and his mouth is formed into a permanent pout. His clothes fit much looser, and though he was skinny before, nearly every bone in his torso is visible through his skin now. With his index finger, he pokes and pulls at the skin of his face to be sure he’s real. (He is, unfortunately.)

He pushes the powder around his nose into his nostril and sniffs one more time before he exits the bathroom, his head aching as he awaits his high.

He coasts for a while like that. High all the time, very little care for his own health.

His twenty-fifth birthday passes, and god, does he wish he could remember it.

Derek notices something’s wrong.

“What’s going on with you, kid?”

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean you’ve been distant, and quiet, and you’ve been off your game for a while now. So, talk to me, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Spencer, stop. That’s bullshit. Just talk to me, man.” Derek’s eyes are pleading Spencer to say something, but he knows he can’t.

“Nothing. I just haven’t been sleeping well lately.”

Derek knows it’s a lie and doesn’t respond, only sighs and rubs the back of his neck. He knows that this is pointless. “Alright, but if you need anything you can call me, okay? For anything.”

 _No, I can’t, but thank you_.

“Okay, I’ll call if I need anything. Thanks.”

He never calls.

Just a month or two later, life is so dream-like. Spencer is very good at coked-out driving. He doesn’t like that he possesses this talent, but he does, and it’s very useful for a high-functioning addict.

Half-lidded eyes remain tired and empty, and his work ethic has plummeted—enough so that Hotch has mentioned it.

“Reid, you need to understand that we all care about you, and seeing you struggling and refusing our help hurts us. From a professional perspective, you’re this close,” he holds up his index finger and thumb, leaving only a small amount of space between them, “to losing your job. Please, just talk to someone. See a therapist.”

Spencer bites the inside of his cheek and looks to his feet before meeting his boss’s gaze. “Okay. I’ll see somebody.” He steps out of Hotch’s office and pushes his hair back, exhaling loudly through his mouth.

He finds a therapist. He tells her everything he takes regularly. He rolls up his sleeves and shows her the scars from infected injection sites. He cries on her couch because he’s never said any of this out loud.

“Well, Spencer, do you want to get sober?”

“Yes,” he sniffles, “I really do. I’m sick of this.”

“Okay, start going to meetings again. Continue coming to see me. We’ll get through this together, okay?”

He nods and shakes her hand before stepping out of her office.

He listens to her advice. He returns to Narcotics Anonymous meetings, and has appointments with Dr. Williamson every Wednesday at 7:00.

He’s doing well. His performance at work is exceptional; probably better than it’s ever been. He can joke around with the team again, and nobody’s told him he looks morbidly ill in a few weeks.

Dr. Williamson says she’s proud of him.

Penelope takes care of Spencer. She brings him gifts at his desk, and although she doesn’t know what he’s been through, it helps. A lot. All he has to do is look at the small, pink, stuffed bear she perched on his desk on day, and he knows that his friends love him. He knows that at least Penelope would be sad if he relapsed.

He still smokes—only cigarettes regularly, but sometimes weed—but it’s much better than what he was doing before. He’s happy with how good he’s been, although maybe two packs of menthols a day isn’t much to be proud of.

He goes on walks when he gets cravings, and he’s become well-acquainted with the friendly stray calico (whom he named Einstein) that lives in the alley next to his apartment building. Spencer brings Einstein cans of tuna, and will sit against the dirty brick so that the clingy feline can sprawl out across Spencer’s skinny legs. Einstein likes having his chin scratched, Spencer discovers, and is also not above eating the pigeons that crash into first floor windows and fall to the sidewalk.

Spencer keeps a list by his bed—a piece of notebook paper, covered in messy, scribbled handwriting—of reasons not to relapse. 

“3. It will surely kill me next time.

  1. And then mom won’t have any more visitors.
  2. Henry won’t have a godfather.
  3. Penelope won’t have anybody to give the other half of her doughnut to.
  4. Einstein won’t get treats.”



It goes on from there.

There’s a case in Tampa, and Spencer only brings one joint with him (a big accomplishment for him) for what’s probably going to be about a week. He’s nervous, but is trying to see this as a good thing.

Children are being abducted from a park in Hillsborough County, and are turning up dead anywhere from three days to a week after their capture. These children range from five to seven years old, and so far, they’re all white, brunette boys.

“The unsub is most likely female.” Spencer offers.

“Why do you say that?” Derek asks as he stares at the evidence board with his hands plastered to his hips.

“People, especially children, tend to be more trusting of women than they are of men, which would explain how they were abducted so discreetly—they were entirely willing.” It’s the first useful piece of information he’s given in probably months.

Derek mulls it over for a moment before he nods. “I think you’re right.” He points to two photos of one of the bodies—Charlie Stevens—at the dump site. He’s covered in a sheet, posed as if he’s in a casket—with his arms crossed over his chest. “Clearly there’s remorse here, I bet she’s thinking of these boys like her children.”

“I’ll get Garcia on the phone.”

Penelope answers after one ring.

“Hello my lovelies! How can I be of service?” She greets.

“Could you look for women who lost their sons in the last month? White, brunette, aged five to seven years old.”

“Sure can.” They hear her keyboard clicking as she pounds on the keys, searching for an answer to their question. “Got a whole list. I’ll email it to you guys.”

“Thanks, mama.” Derek chimes in.

“No problem.” She hangs up and the two men continue to work on the profile, which is being delivered tomorrow morning.

When Spencer drops his satchel by his feet after he steps through the door, the urge to smoke overwhelms him. He sifts through his bag, taking out the joint and lighter he’d stuffed in there for emergencies several weeks ago, and taking it between his shaky fingers.

He puts it in his mouth and sucks on the end when the flame touches the paper, and he sighs in relief when it finally lights and he feels that delicious burning in his throat. He steps over to the window, trying to avoid allowing the smoke to cloud the room and the stench to cling to the sheets.

He coughs, feeling the smoke billow in his chest before he takes another hit and pushes it out through his nose, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back. He’ll surely be fined $150 for smoking in his room, but all that matters right now is that he gets out of his head.

When the joint’s gone and he smushed it against the basin of the sink and tossed it into the toilet, he brushes his teeth to get the grittiness out of his mouth and changes his clothes to rid himself of the foul smell.

When he wakes, he is congested and fairly certain that his room still reeks. He takes a quick shower to scrub the odor from his hair and skin before meeting Derek in the lobby to ride to the police station with him.

The day goes by slowly after they deliver the profile, not because it’s boring, but because it’s filled with pictures of dead kids, discussions of the unsub’s next targets, and conversations with friends of the last victim. Getting second-graders to talk about their dead friend is not easy, and it takes quite the toll on Spencer.

He wishes he’d saved the weed for tonight, but he knows that he never would’ve slept last night if he hadn’t smoked. Maybe this wasn’t the best case for him to limit himself.

Spencer heads straight for the hotel bar when he steps through the double doors, and he orders a whiskey on the rocks. He doesn’t like how whiskey tastes, he’s more of a sangria guy, but he knows he can knock back whiskey with more efficiency than he can a mixed drink, and he’s not exactly focused on flavor right now.

After three or four within a hour, his liver can’t keep up, and with every tilt of his head he feels like he’s about to fall from his chair. The liquor spills from the glass at the same time that Derek claps a hand on Spencer’s shoulder.

“C’mon, man, let’s get you to your room.”

“‘Mmfine, Derek.” Spencer slurs. “What’re you doing down here?”

“I knocked on your door and couldn’t find you, so I came looking.” He slides his card to the bartender to pay Spencer’s tab before he guides him off of his seat. “You don’t wanna do this to yourself, I know you don’t-”

“Yes, I do. I really do.” He mumbles, rubbing his eyes.

Derek picks up the plastic from the wood of the counter and wraps his arm around Spencer’s narrow back while they walk to the elevator.

He lets go of the smaller man at the door to his room, letting him walk through the space to find sweats and a t-shirt to sleep in.

“Listen, kid, I can’t—” he sniffs the air, and when he decides that he knows exactly what it smells like, he gives up on his sentence— “am I smelling _weed_?”

“It smelled like that when I got the room. I was tired, so I didn’t complain.” The lie slips easily off his tongue.

Derek is suspicious, but doesn’t want to make any accusations, so he drops it and decides to pick up where he’d left off. “I can’t watch you do this yourself again. You need _help_ , Spencer.”

“I’m _fine_ , Derek.”

“No, Reid-”

“Yes, Morgan! It’s none of your business anyway!” He snaps, and gestures to the door. “Could you just go? I think we both need some sleep.”

Derek nods sadly, holding up his hands in surrender, and steps out.

Spencer wakes up with a mild headache, but it’s nothing he isn’t used to. He fixes his messy hair, brushes his teeth, and pulls on fresh clothes before he finds Derek in the lobby.

“You feel okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Derek nods and they both get settled in the SUV. The ride to the station is silent.

The rest of the week is agonizing. They lose more kids, and Spencer is hungover and grumpy the entire time. JJ stops him at the coffee machine on the jet ride back.

“Are you okay, Spence? You seem really...out of it. You’re not acting like yourself.” She says, observing his eyes, as if trying to detect any sort of answer in his gaze.

“I’m okay.” He shrugs, stuffing a pod in the Keurig and aggressively slamming his finger on the brew button.

“You sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” He tries not to sound frustrated, but ultimately fails. “Thanks for checking in.”

She silently nods and takes her seat at the table next to Emily.

He gets home and packs a bowl, shaky hands holding a lighter to the bud as he covers the carb and inhales as much as he can. When he coughs, the smoke is forced out of his lungs, and he couldn’t care less that it floats to the ceiling of his living room with nowhere to go. He disabled his smoke detector a long time ago.

He leans back and sighs, staring at the glowing ashes in the bowl before he takes another hit, holding it for as long as he can before he purses his lips and blows it out, watching the white clouds swirl in front of his face. His head is lighter than before, and his fingertips tingle as he slowly is able to allow the memories of this week to escape his mind.

A couple of hours later, Spencer wakes up with his face pressed against the leather of his couch. His belt is digging into his stomach, and his watch is surely making marks on his wrist.

His high is mostly gone, and, desperate for more, he eyes the cabinet in the kitchen with the forbidden box in it. 

The high-up, dusty shelf holds only a rolling pin that he’s never used, and a locked box with bottles of Dilaudid and a few unused syringes. He knows he should’ve gotten rid of them when he quit, but he wanted them around, just in case.

He sighs and begins to unbutton his shirt as he stands from the couch and reaches to the box, taking the key from the top of the refrigerator and wiggling it in the lock until the top pops open. He gathers what he needs in his large hand, resuming his previous position on the couch. He pulls his shirt off and tries not to look at his now-healthy body. Although he still has some scarring, the scabs and infections that once littered his skin are mostly faded, and he’s at a weight that doesn’t qualify as malnourished. 

He takes the cap from a syringe after securing his belt around his bicep, sticking it into a bottle and pulling up the plunger to collect as much of the liquid as he can. He takes it out, flicking the plastic a few times to make sure there are no air bubbles before he finds vein, shoving it through the skin and slowly pushing it all in.

It hurts at first—he’s not used to this anymore—but that doesn’t matter when the euphoria quickly washes over him, knocking him against the back cushions of the couch. He pulls the needle from his arm, capping it before fumbling with the buckle on the belt and sliding it off.

Spencer struggles to get his arms back into his shirt, but doesn’t bother buttoning it again. He feels his blood pressure decrease with his body temperature and lays horizontally across the couch, staring blankly up at the ceiling.

He allows his eyes to trace the swirling patterns in the paint, and he tries to count every single one. He makes it to thirteen before he starts to nod off.

He’s woken probably thirty seconds later to pounding on his door and a familiar voice shouting his name.

“Reid? You home, kid?” Derek asks.

“Yes.” Spencer’s voice emerges as a whisper.

Derek knocks again, repeating Spencer’s name before trying to open the door. It’s unlocked, thankfully, and he notices Spencer immediately.

“Spencer, what did you do?” Derek sounds panicked, and Spencer slowly looks up at him. He looks at the syringe, at the bottles, at the pipe on the coffee table, and helps his friend sit up. “Can you hear me?”

He nods. “I’m...I’m okay, Derek.”

“No—Jesus Christ— _no_ , you’re not!” 

“I just need to lay down.”

“No, you need to go to the _hospital_.” Derek corrects, and tries to pull Spencer from his sitting position.

“I’m not going anywhere!”

“Okay, well-”

“Just get out, Derek.” Spencer pushes the older man’s hands off of his shoulder, laying back down. “Leave me alone.”

“I’m not leaving you alone.”

“Get out.” Spencer mumbles, closing his eyes again.

Derek stands, taking out his phone and calling somebody—Spencer can’t hear who.

He doesn’t feel the same as he usually does when he’s high. There’s this ever-present sinking feeling, deep in his chest, that’s telling him something is wrong. He realizes he’s overdosing—shallow breathing, lessened alertness, confusion—and tries to stand to tell Morgan, but can’t hold himself up for longer than a few seconds. Spencer collapses to the floor, soon feeling Derek pulling him so he lays on his back.

“What’s wrong, Reid? What can I do?” He frantically looks between both of Spencer’s eyes.

“CPR.” Is all he answers with before his breathing stops.

Derek pulls Spencer's already-open shirt away from his chest and positions his body correctly, beginning to push down in the center of his chest.

It hurts. He never imagined it would hurt like this. He feels something crack, but tries to assure himself in his inebriated state that that’s perfectly normal.

He closes his eyes—he’s just so tired—and faintly hears Derek yelling to him.

“Damnit, Spencer! Please stay awake!” Derek’s sweating and crying as he looks down at Spencer, and he’s muttering numbers under his breath to keep count of his compressions.

He shakes his head, and somehow knows that once he closes his eyes, they won’t open again. He tries so hard, and in these moments, he thinks of how Derek will be traumatized by this moment; by watching his best friend die in his arms, thinking he could save him.

He thinks of the way that Penelope’s sweet face will contort with grief when she’s informed of how her favorite genius overdosed because he was a coward. He thinks of how JJ will have to tell Henry that Uncle Spencer can’t bring him out to lunch, or to the Smithsonian anymore. He thinks of how Emily has lost her little brother, how his poor mother has lost her only son. _She’ll be so scared._

Einstein won’t get his tuna, the fish in the bowl on the counter won’t be fed, the homeless man that Spencer buys breakfast for a few times a week will wonder what happened, the nine year old girl that he plays chess with in the park on Sunday mornings no longer has a partner.

Spencer takes a sudden gulp of air, and Derek falls back on his knees, exhausted from the exertion.

“It wasn’t worth it.” He manages, despite the pain in his ribs. Tears prick his eyes and soon fall down his cheeks.

“Huh?”

“It wasn’t worth it. I’m going to die, Derek.” His voice is hardly audible, and he forces himself to swallow down his sobs. “I’m not ready.”

His friend sniffles and takes Spencer’s sweaty hand in his own. “You’re not goin’ anywhere.”

Spencer shakes his head. 

“It’s okay.” He repeats it, more for himself than anything else. “I’ll be okay. You have to let me go.”

“No! You’re- you’re gonna be fine!” Hot tears form finite streams down Derek’s cheeks, and his bottom lip quivers in a pathetic attempt to hold back his tears. “Just hold on. The ambulance will be here soon. Just stay awake for a little bit longer, okay?”

Spencer hears the sirens, but knows he won’t make it when his eyelids grow heavier. He squeezes his friend’s hand. “It doesn’t hurt. It’s okay.”

“No-”

Spencer closes his eyes and his hand falls limp in Derek’s. He knew he was never strong enough for this.

  
  



End file.
